


You Mean Everything

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: He's Just Like His Daddy [10]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bipolar Disorder, Fights, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian gets home late and it results in a bad fight. </p><p>Anon Asked : "I have prompt for you! (Set when Mickey is still pregnant with Owen) Mickey is angry/hormonal & mixed with Ian's bipolar disorder it leads to a bad fight. Then Mickey spends the night away at some other place all sad. Then fluffy apology from Ian?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Mean Everything

**Author's Note:**

> I took my own little twist on the prompt - I really hope that this okay for you:) 
> 
> Set when Mickey and Ian don't know the sex of the baby yet.

Mickey taps at his bump with a delicate hand, watching the clock each time the hand moved from one minute to the next. Ian was supposed to be home three hours ago – his shift at his new office ended at eight and he'd usually only take around fifteen minutes to round the couple of blocks to get to their apartment. Mickey was going fucking crazy. This wasn't typical of Ian. Sure, maybe a couple of months back Mickey would have just gone to bed and hoped Ian would be laid next to him when morning came – _but,_ Ian was always home on time. Especially when it was his turn to cook.

Mickey's eyes fluttered, his mouth going slack as he tried to resist the urge to sleep. His hand laid protectively over his bump, rubbing over the smooth skin in a slow continuous rhythm that stopped the baby kicking now and again. Suddenly, he was knocked awake with the sound of the apartment door slamming shut and a shuffle of feet against the lament flooring.

As Mickey shifts himself against the sofa, his eyes latch to a slumped, slurring redhead that swayed against his legs. Ian laughed at himself, trying to pull off his jacket with weak, trembling hands. Mickey could smell the whisky shots, the Vodka, the _sweat,_ and he immediately knew where Ian had been. His stomach twisted, blood boiling as it curdled around his body.

Mickey wanted to hurl. “Where you been?”

Ian's head shoots up, nearly stumbling over his own feet. In a chuckle, he lazily waves his hand over to Mickey, “You know. Out.”

It wasn't rocket science. Ian had been out to the one place that Mickey hated, the only place that for years he had tried to steer Ian away from. He gulps harshly, hand still placed over his bump as he directed his gaze to the background noise of the television set. “To the club?”

Ian's face changed completely. There was something about him that was off. That Mickey hadn't realised until now. Ian was acting differently, his whole body was slumped in a way that didn't fit right with him. Mickey felt the morning sickness arriving early. Ian smacks his lips together, forming a tight smile. “Nope.”

Mickey almost winces when Ian punctuates his sentence with a chuckle. There were two things that Mickey really fucked hated; _one –_ Ian going off to the stupid club, grinding against stupid Viagriods, wearing a pair of ill-fitted booty shoots. _Two –_ When Ian lied to him. The worst part was, they had both happened in the same night and Mickey had no clue how to handle it.

Taking a deep breath, Mickey closes his eyes before asking the question. “Where have you been then?” He only dreaded the answer more.

Ian's hands started to shake more profoundly, Mickey caught it in the corner of his eye and he wasn't sure whether to ignore them or hold them better. Abruptly, Ian bursts out into a fit of rage that Mickey could only guess was trigged partially by the alcohol stirred with his medication. “Jesus, Mickey, do I have to tell you my every fucking move?”

Mickey flinches, he's unsure why, but whenever Ian gets angry it doesn't sit well in his stomach. Now that he was pregnant, he felt more vulnerable than ever. He clutches a hand around his bump, turning his gaze towards Ian, glaring holes into the other man's eyes. “Fuck you.” He whispers, before struggling to stand. “Sorry I give a shit, huh.”

Ian groans a little, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Mickey feels himself burn up, he's not in the mood for any of Ian's bullshit. Especially drunk bullshit. The redhead steps closer, his teeth slightly bearing. “I told you I was out, why couldn't you just leave it there?”

Mickey quickly glances over Ian's body, catching snippets of glitter against his skin. His fists clench at his sides, one finger reaching up, jabbing Ian in the chest. “What? So you expect me to just sit here like some bitch, waiting up for your fucking ass, and _not_ wonder where the hell you've been?”

The other man rolls his eyes at Mickey, a smirk resting against his lips before he pushes past Mickey and heads over to the kitchen. “I didn't ask for you to wait up.” Ian snaps, pulling open the fridge to grab at beer.

Mickey's hands tighten, he rushes after Ian, slamming the fridge door shut. He feels the anger brew in his stomach, and some part of him wants to cry like a bitch because of his stupid hormones, but he stiffens himself before asking, “You fuck someone else?”

It's as if Ian sobered up in a matter of seconds, his whole body twisting from where it was drunkenly angled towards the fridge, his face flushed red with what Mickey new was anger or confusion. “What?” He spits, placing the bottle of beer against the counter.

Mickey steps forward, hesitating whether or not to even touch Ian. “Did you, or not, fuck someone?” His eyes are starting to glaze over; it wasn't hard to believe that Ian could of done it, Mickey didn't really see himself as _hot_ with a bump growing on his body. He hisses through his teeth, trying to control himself. Raging hormones and Ian's manic stages never really mixed well. “I know you went to that fucking club, Ian.”

Ian swats Mickey's hands away, eyes turning cold as his voice hitched up a couple of notches in anger. “No!” He yells, running a rough hand through his tussled hair. “What the actual fuck, Mickey?!”

Mickey pushes a hand forward, one already on his bump. “Galla-”

Ian ignores Mickey's hand, brushing past him and storming into the living area. Heat radiating off of him, Ian sits at the edge of the sofa, leg bouncing. “Really, fucking really?” He yells at Mickey, waving his hand over to him. “We've been together for years, Mick, and you think I'd go chuck that all away to fuck some piece of ass that hits on me?”

Mickey finds himself lost for words; _Would Ian do that again?_ He knows he wouldn't. He's about to speak, trying to regain his control and tell Ian that he lashed out for nothing, but the redhead is far too gone now.

Ian steps up, hands all over the place, face flushed with a light buzz of the alcohol mixed with rage; two things both of them knew wouldn't mix well. Mickey only wishes that alcohol was a good thing for a baby right now; he misses the numb feeling it gave you when you wanted to forget what you said so badly. Ian tugs at his hair, frustration vibrating off his body. “I would never – _fuck_ you, Mickey.” His hands clench thin air, opening up and closing each time a word tumbled from his mouth.

Clenching his teeth, Ian barks louder. “Fuck you!” He steps closer to Mickey, and even through the towering rage Mickey feels immensely guilty from the tears forming in Ian's eyes. In a whisper, Ian pleads. “I would _never_ do that to you and you fucking know that.”

Mickey places a hand out, “Look, Ian-”

“No, you look!” Ian explodes, pacing on the spot. “I know I fucked people in the past when we've been together, I know that.” _Oh boy, didn't he know that._ “But don't stand there and act all fucking innocent when you cheated on me too."

If anything, Mickey wishes he never opened his mouth. This would last for days, Ian didn't forget things easily, nor quickly, and he could tell this was hurting Ian as much as it was hurting him. He stands there, just staring, unsure of what to say or how to say it. Ian had _still_ gone to that club.

“Hell,” Ian chuckles, breaking Mickey's chain of thought. His hand waves towards Mickey's bump, a freaked but quivering look on his face. “How do I even know that this baby is mine, huh?”

Mickey's heart falls into the pit of his stomach, his mouth falling open at the accusation. _Seriously?_ He feels his own anger mix up with the raging inferno of his emotions, his hormones touching the top level. Those words struck him deep, slicing through his chest like a bullet. “ _What?”_ his feels his words shake.

Ian shrugs, slapping his hands against his thighs. Anxious almost, as if he regretted every single word that just left his mouth.

In a second, Mickey's firing out every single thing, emotion, word, that he could think of that he had been hiding since Ian stumbled through the front door. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” He shouts, voice growing louder. “ _Are you fucking kidding me?!”_ He couldn't believe what he had just heard. None of it. Ian couldn't really think that, could he?

“You know what-” Mickey barrels on, moving around the couch to find his jacket. Ian follows him, still quiet. Mickey pushes past, grabbing his coat. He turns, jabbing a hard finger in Ian's chest. “Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck whatever we have.” He knows he doesn't really mean it, but he knew something bad would happen if he ended up staying after hearing those words. “You _know_ this kid is yours, you fucking know that.”

Ian winces at the shouts, going to grab for Mickey's wrist as the brunette went to walk away from him. “Mick-”

Mickey immediately tugs his hand free, pulling on his coat. He wasn't having any of this. “No, don't fucking touch me.” His eyes are glazing, his vision nothing but a blur but atleast he was thinking clearly. “I don't want to hear it, Ian, you've said enough don't you think?”

Ian pushes himself in-front of him, hands reaching out, eyes brimming with tears, his voice trembling with an apology, “Mickey, I didn't mean to-”

Swatting Ian's hand away, Mickey shakes his head, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “Anyone ever tell you that fucking saying; Drunk minds speak sober thoughts?” He raises his brow, getting nothing from Ian in return, the guilt building in his chest but it didn't matter now. He'd have to fight against it. Guilt was nothing compared to hurt.

After a long, eerie silence, Mickey laughs coldly. “You know what, man, get out of my fucking way.”

Mickey heads for the door, one hand still on his bump, the other reaching for his car keys that were against the coffee table. Ian rushes after him, a tear streaming down his cheek, he pushes his back against the front door, blocking Mickey's exit. His voice cracks almost completely, Mickey still hadn't got to grips with Ian's mood swings, they still overwhelmed him at times.

“Please don't go, Mick.” Ian pleads, breathing heavily.

Mickey shoves at Ian's chest, a silent sob releasing from his throat. “Just fucking move, Ian.” He shoves again, his fists weak, his chest hurting with his erratic breathing that was helplessly trying to help him stay controlled. His legs hurt, swelling like balloons, his head was pounding, whole body tired; Mickey had no idea how he was still standing and not collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Ian shakes his head. Mickey hisses through his teeth, “Fucking move before I do something stupid like putting your head through the fucking wall.”

Ian bites back his sob, “Just-”

“No!” Mickey yells, causing Ian to wince a little. He hated that. Mickey had always hated that. He shoves at Ian's side, trying to move him, the bump giving him less strength to move through tiredness. “Leave me the fuck alone, just-” He lets out a deep breath, looking up to Ian. He feels that he might just give in, that he won't leave through the door and go to Mandy's. But Ian's words just come flying back, biting him in the ass.

Ian stares at him pleadingly, as if he's in pain. Mickey wants to laugh, he really does, this was ridiculous, _all_ of their fights were ridiculous. His voice is lower this time, maybe even softer, “It's not that you're fucking drunk or high off your ass, Ian. I _can't_ believe that you would actually think that this kid isn't yours.” He wipes his eyes against his jacket. “I thought I knew you better than that.”

The redhead lifts his back off the door, sniffing up pathetically. “Please, Mick-”

Mickey takes his chances, he shoves Ian to the side, harder than he liked. “Move.” He speaks clearly, hurt tumbling from his tongue as he tried to keep his cool. Ian stumbles, incoherent words falling from his stuttered speech. Mickey blocks it out, knowing that he needed to get away for the night. “I'm going to Mandy's. Don't call, don't text. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

Then the door slams shut behind Mickey. Ian stands there, staring at the closed door, his whole body crushed inside. _What had he fucking done?_ With nothing left to do, he slides down the wall, head in his hands. “What have I fucking done?” He asks himself, voice barely audible against the silence of the apartment.

Then he starts to cry.

 ***

It had been ten hours since Mickey had barged out of the apartment, his heart in his stomach, his hands trembling. Ian was out of order. Mickey had to keep telling himself that, but no matter how many times he tried to defend himself with the decision of leaving the apartment, it all fell back to worry. _Ian might do something, something stupid._ Despite it being months since Ian's diagnosis and less time since he finally accepted he was sick, the worry would never subside, it would always be waiting in the back of Mickey's mind.

The baby starts kicking, as if it knew that Ian wasn't there. It was like some strange signal, telling Mickey that it didn't feel right without Ian being around. Mickey palms his bump, rubbing against the sore of each kick. Mickey had been awake for most hours, thinking of what the baby might look like; Girl or a Boy. Whether or not it would have Ian's eyes or his, whether or not it would have red hair or black, whether it could sense Ian's absence. Mandy had told him to sleep it off, that Ian was definitely out of order but that these things happen, that she would kick Ian's ass in a couple of hours. Mickey told her it was fine, because it was. A fight was a fight. The words didn't hurt any less.

An alarm barks from Mickey's phone, the usual tune that he heard every morning blaring through the small, spare room that Mandy had let him stop in. Mickey turns his head from his bump, looking over to the small message that flashed against the screen: _Ian's pills._

His heart stops – Ian wouldn't remember to take his pills. Mickey was the one who reminded him, who set the alarm, who shook him awake with a glass of water and three pills clasped in his palm. The guilt thrives through his body, head nearly exploding with scenarios that all ended badly. He finds himself staring at the blaring alarm, biting his lip with a shuddering feeling stuck deep in his chest.

The door opens, Mickey hardly registers Mandy walking through tiredly, rubbing her hands and asking what the loud noise was. Mickey stays still, trying to work out whether or not to even _text_ Ian to remind him. Instead, Mandy clicks it off, taking Mickey's phone and reading the reminder. Mickey watches nervously, unsure of what to do.

Mandy rubs his knee, before nodding to herself. “I'll text him.”

Mickey almost sighs with relief. “Whatever.”

 ***

Ian groans from his cramped position against the couch, his arm stuck beneath him as his phone vibrated in his back pocket. His head was pounding, mouth dry like concrete, ears ringing out loudly. There was missing piece in his heart from where Mickey would be lying next to him. (He couldn't sleep in their big bed with a huge space vacant next to him. That scared him.) Last night had been a blur, but by sure he remembered what he had said to Mickey. That was the only thing that ran through his mind, over and over, it still stuck even after ten shots of Vodka in row.

He shouldn't of drank. It felt unnatural. After months of taking pills, helping Mickey out, starting a new job, Ian hadn't drank in what felt like years. It was all taking its toll on him now. He sloppily moves, shifting himself against the small couch, pulling out his phone from his pocket. Blinking a couple of times, he clicks onto the text.

_**Mandy:** You need to sort this shit out. Take your pills, I'll be over in 20. _

Ian gulps harshly. Pills. God, his pills. He struggles to move from the couch, his hand falling against the side to support. The room span a little as he stood up, legs shaking with aftershocks of the night. His back clicks in five places, cramping up a little in his shoulder. Ian massages the muscle a little, tilting his head from side to side as he walked over to the small cabinet above the sink.

Mickey was going to kill him. Literally. He opens the cabinet, pulling out the three empty orange bottles that he would never stop hating. He shakes them, making sure. None. Just like the day before, and two more before that. He hadn't told Mickey. They were short of money already; Mickey not working, and Ian's wages being nothing but shit, they needed to save as much as they could. Not taking his pills for a couple of days was stupid, he fucking knew that, but he wanted to earn some cash that didn't take away from their fund.

Ian leaves them on the counter, he reaches to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. Breathing in, he tries to push away the invading thoughts that echoed and built within his mind. Downing the drink, he places his hands on either side of the sink, closing his eyes as his mind span like a whirlwind.

For what felt like an eternity, after a couple of minutes a loud, angered, knock hit against the front door. Ian dreaded the wrath of Mandy, it was always the worst, worse than Mickey. He slowly makes his way to the door, cursing to himself and his stupidity as he unlocked and opened the door.

The first thing he feels his Mandy's hand slap across his face. “That's for making out my brother is some slut.” She bitterly remarks, before she lets out a breath and her shoulders deflate. “Now, Ian Gallagher, what the _fuck_ is going on?!”

 ***

Ian told Mandy everything; about the club, about dancing on the podium just earn a little cash to pay for his pills. Her reaction was everything that he expected. She looked as if she had burst into flames, her nose flaring, his hands waving all over the place as she numerously called him an idiot for thinking that Mickey wouldn't realise. Ian had told her about what he said, that he didn't mean it, that it was just a spur of the moment that had been fuelled with anger and stress – she cared more about the fact he had gone three days without medication, that he had been so stubborn not to tell Mickey that he had run out, bringing in scenarios of what could of happened. Ian could only feel more guilty.

Mandy had even offered to pay for them herself, but Ian wouldn't let her. He had earned the cash, he just needed to go down there and get them. It wasn't on his priority list now, though, he wanted to make things right with Mickey. That was all that mattered at this point. Obviously, Mandy thought different, despite going mental about the accusation that Ian had spurred in her brothers direction, She had grabbed at his arm, pulling him out of the apartment and into her car, telling him that if he didn't make things right now they might never be okay.

That's how he ended up at the door of Mandy's spare room, his hand shaking against the handle, his teeth ripping his lip to shreds.

Mandy sighs from behind him, shoving at his back. “Just go in there, Ian.”

Ian takes a deep breath, closing his eyes before pushing the door open. Mickey's sprawled against the bed, a cheese and pickle sandwich lodged into his hands as his eyes were glued to the television set at the end of the bed. Ian gulps, defeated at the lack of attention coming from Mickey as he entered the room.

“Mick.” He finally speaks, standing awkwardly at the side of the bed.

Mickey chews animatedly into his sandwich, eyes not leaving the screen. Blankly, he asks, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ian sways on his feet, hesitating to move. “I, uh,” his words stutter, his hands clasping together nervously. “I need to talk to you.”

Mickey was obviously pissed, more than that probably, his bites were getting bigger and harder through his sandwich. He doesn't say a thing, placing his plate to the side of him, swallowing the last bite of his food. Rubbing a hand over his bump, he sighs, “Go ahead. We all know how much you love blabbing your fucking mouth.”

That was expected. Ian knew Mickey would be stubborn to talk, or even look at him after what he had said. He sighs, fingers twitching, he walks over to the end of the bed and slowly sits on it. He turns to Mickey, but the brunette avoids his gaze, looking over his shoulder. “I need to talk to you about last night.”

Mickey scoffs, nodding his head, “Oh, _really?”_ he sighs, rubbing a hand against his bump in habit. Ian opens and closes his mouth, not sure where to start. Mickey lets out a cold smile, gaze still over his shoulder. “I thought you came back to talk about last week, you know, when the toaster blew out?”

Ian lets Mickey get it out – it was obvious he needed to. He goes to reach back to Mickey, but he knows better than that, he knows Mickey doesn't like to be touched when he was angry. His hands still shaking, he bites his lip. “Cut the crap, Mickey. I'm being serious.”

Mickey laughs again, “Spit it out, then. I ain't got all day.”

Ian scratches the back of his neck, giving Mickey a weak smile but it dropped almost completely when his eyes locked with the brunettes. Nothing but hurt shadowed Mickey's expression, hidden below his harden exterior. “I, er, I didn't mean any of that shit I said last night. I didn't.”

Mickey scoffs to himself, picking at his nails. Ian tries to ignore it, feeling even worse now. _Why did he have to say that? “_ I'm not blaming it on the alcohol, or the club, or any of that shit, it's just-”

“Just what?” Mickey barks, raising his brow.

Ian feels his hands tighten together, his pink skin going white. “I was angry, okay, and stressed. I really, I just, I have no fucking clue why I said it.” He sounded pathetic, he knew, but it was the God's honest truth. Those words tumbled out of his mouth like a bag of bricks, flowing clumsily without control.

Mickey lets out a long, drawn out, breath. “Well, you did.”

The guilt rushes right through Ian's body, he nods slowly to himself. Rounding the bed, he sits at Mickey's side, not too close but close enough to see Mickey's face shadow with hurt. Ian places his hand on the bed, close to Mickey's. “I know, I fucking suck.”

The brunette lets out a weak laugh, “Yeah, I fucking know.”

Ian bites his lip, shifting against the mattress a little. “But I didn't mean it, you have to know that, Mick.” He hesitates to move his hand, but he does anyway, moving it over to Mickey's hand resting on top of is bump. Ian places his hand, gently over it. “I know this baby is mine, of course I do.”

Mickey finally looks over, eyes brimmed hazily with tears, clicking his tongue. His face is still blank, but Ian's glad he's listening.

Ian rubs his hand over Mickey's bump, hand shaking a little. “You mean everything to me, Mickey, and so does that little baby in there.” A smile breaches his lips of the thought of having a little mixture of them running around the apartment, causing havoc and driving them crazy.

“I fucked up and I'm sorry.” Ian talks, eyes dancing over the slowly forming bump against Mickey's stomach. He sighs, “You don't deserve this shit. I just – my mind just got the better of me.”

Mickey nods, eyes tracing over Ian, sighing as the redhead's hands moved over his bump and some-how calmed the kicking that started when he had stepped through the door. Licking his lips, he finally breathes, “I don't forgive you-” Ian looks up, accepting the words; he didn't expect Mickey to forgive him, he would never ask for that.

Mickey's hand drops from his stomach, reaching up and threading itself within Ian's tussled hair. Mickey whispers, sincerely, “But you mean everything to me too, man, that's why I left.”

Ian leans into the touch, closing his eyes, hands firm against Mickey's bump. The hole in his heart immediately fills back up; only Mickey could do that. Ian relishes in the feel of Mickey's fingers tangling in his hair, his palm firmly holding him steady amongst the chattering voices invading his mind. With his free-hand, he reaches up and clutches to Mickey's hand. “I guess I need to explain where I went last night.”

Mickey waves his hand lazily, his other still in Ian's hold. Even though he wanted, _needed,_ to know where Ian went, he wasn't entirely sure whether he wanted to hear it. “Nah, man, leave it. You went to the club, so fucking what.”

A bullet strikes through Ian's chest, his mouth hanging open. Ian needed to tell Mickey everything – it was only fair, and after everything that went on, Mickey deserved to be told. Plus the fact that if he didn't Mandy would go all bat-shit crazy on his ass and probably skin him alive with a butter knife. Ian pulls Mickey's hand from his head, intertwining their fingers. “No, Mick. I didn't fuck anyone, I really didn't and I get why you wouldn't tru-”

Mickey shakes his head, squeezing Ian's fingers. “I trust you, Ian. I just don't trust the sleazy basturds that go in there.” God, if Mickey could destroy that club with a bulldozer it would have been in ruins the moment he had found Ian those months ago dancing on some old fucks lap.

Ian lets out a small sob, his chest deflating in relief of Mickey's words. He pulls their hands up, kissing at Mickey's knuckles before finally confessing why the hell he went there in the first place. “I went there, well, because I ran out of my pills.”

The brunette's body stiffens, his hand tightening, nose flaring. “Wait, what?”

Soothing Mickey's bump, Ian tries to calm him from his barrel of anger awaiting to burst. He sighs, a little defeated, his mind still rattling. It was his own fault, he'd have to explain it at some point. That moment was now. “We need money as it is, Mick. I didn't want to waste money on stupid fucking pills.”

Mickey sits himself up, protective mode kicking in like everytime something happened revolving around Ian's disorder or medication. “They're not stupid, Ian, you need them. Why the fuck didn't you tell me?” Mickey's voice was growing louder, his hand so tight around Ian's it almost felt like the circulation in his hand was slowly cutting off.

Ian chews at his lip, eyes glazed over as he watched Mickey's breathing quickened, the baby's kicks starting to hit back against the palm of his hand. “Because it's not fair, aright. I wanted to make some extra cash so we could actually have some decent food on the table, and all I could think of was the club.” he looks over to Mickey, feeling even worse once he realised Mickey's eyes were tinged with tears, ready to breach but holding back. Ian's not sure whether it's real or its just his hormones playing up again.

Mickey doesn't say anything, raising his brow in a gesture for Ian to elaborate. Ian gives him an apologetic look, hand skimming over the sore skin of Mickey's bump. “I know I should of told you, I really wanted to, but with the baby and everything I didn't want to stress you out.” It was a lousy excuse, pathetic really, but Ian felt as if he was bringing them down, that paying for pills was shortening their income most weeks.

Mickey releases his hand from Ian's before clipping him around the head with it. “You're a fucking stubborn ass, you know that?” He shakes his head, letting out a chuckle that sounded almost humorous. “I might be fucking pregnant but I can still kick your ass.” He raises an intimidating eyebrow, looking Ian straight in the eye with the look of _don't fucking test me._

Ian goes to speak but Mickey raises a hand before him. “I don't give a shit about decent meals and paying for the fucking electricity. I care about _you,_ aright.” He cups Ian's face with one hand, thumb brushing against the rough skin of his stubble that formed over night. “I care that you're fucking stable. I say what I fucking pay for, Gallagher, not you.”

The baby kicks, as if it agrees with Mickey. Ian lets out a wet laugh, fingers stroking against the soft, rounded skin. Mickey's lips curl up, his hand scooping down to Ian's neck, protectively holding him. Ian tilts his head to the side, leaning into the generous touch. “I know, Mick -”

Mickey squeezes his neck lightly, shifting against the mattress as the kicks failed to subside. His other hand rests at the side of his bump, allowing Ian's to roam over and cherish it. “Listen to me, asshole. You, me and this baby are going to have the best fucking life we can dream of -” Ian smiles going to say something but Mickey cuts in. “ _And_ if that means forging out of our funds to get your pills, then so fucking be it.”

Ian's face splits into a smile, he leans down and kisses sweetly against Mickey's stomach. Mickey's hand threads through the hair at the nape of his neck, looking down to Ian with hooded, tired eyes. A laugh bubbles from Ian's lips, his breath hot against Mickey's skin, tickling him. “You sound a little unMilkoviched right now, Mick.”

A laugh leaves Mickey's lips too, his face lighting up; he'd never get over the image of Ian kissing and talking to their baby, he only wished that the pregnancy would hurry the fuck up so Ian could do it for real. He tugs playfully at Ian's hair, squirming as Ian caressed his bump. “I'm a hormonal pregnant man, I'm allowed to be fucking sweet.”

Ian lifts his head up, looking over to Mickey through his lashes. A smile falls gently against his lips, both hands shielding Mickey's stomach. “Well, you do like them sweet.” He giggles to himself, lifting up Mickey's shirt to place a kiss against the smoothed skin.

“Damn fucking right I do.”Mickey squirms under the soft touch, leg kicking up in a reflex. He lets out a barking laugh, the memory flooding back from all those years ago when he made it his life mission to make Kash's life hell. _Fucking pervert._ He smooths his hand over the crown of Ian's scalp, his back starting to kill from his awkward position against the headboard.

Ian looks up, grinning. Mickey can't help himself; that stupid gorgeous idiot red-headed fucker. “Get the fuck over here so we can have some hot, pregnant, make up sex.”

The redhead grins, smugly, his hands still roaming his skin. He sits up, pulling off his jacket and chucking it onto the floor. Slowly, he crawls up the bed, smiling like an idiot on crack, his hands at either side of Mickey. Mickey's hands find themselves at Ian's hips, fingers brushing underneath the fabric of his shirt. Ian's face hovers over his, their lips barely inches apart. Ian grins, licking his lips, “Now that's the Milkovich I fell for.”

Mickey's eyes nearly roll off his head, his hand resting now at the nape of Ian's neck. Humming to himself, Mickey winks, “Shut the fuck up and kiss me, Gallagher.”

And just like that, the fight they had was just a distant memory.

 


End file.
